We met up at Roscoe’s after you moved to the city. After you left your sugar daddy in the suburbs for a sugar daddy on the north side. A Lincoln Park sugar daddy that owned an entire three-flat, complete with a garage and a BMW, which you told me all wide-eyes and grinning that he would let you drive.

When you told me this, I momentarily wondered how many fucks would need to transpire before you were allowed behind the wheel of that German automobile.

When you told me this, I pictured you in the driver’s seat with him in the passenger seat, eyeing you and smiling and glowing from having fucked you not even an hour earlier, and you ecstatic solely because you never drove a BMW before.

So we met up at Roscoe’s shortly after you moved and we were standing at the bar, smoking and waiting for our drinks, and you introduced me to someone as your “new best friend,” and the moment you did this I felt a sinking feeling in the core of my being because this was all I would ever be to you.

In the simple and most perfunctory introduction to a person I did not know and would never see again, you established the boundaries of our relationship.

At the laundromat, a flat screen television hangs above the “TOY CHEST,” a sarcophagus-shaped machine of fun, wherein for 50 cents one can maneuver a three-pronged claw to obtain a treasure. Continue reading “Miss Marine Biologist”